The motel room smelled faintly of bleach and stale air conditioning, but Alexis barely noticed. Her bare back arched off the sunken mattress as her latest hookup—a fit, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties—thrust into her with rhythmic force, his abs flexing with every motion.

“God,” he groaned in her ear, gripping her hips tightly. “You are… unreal. I’ve never been with anyone as beautiful as you.”

Flattery like that didn’t usually move her—but this guy was hot. Broad shoulders, clean-shaven jaw, piercing eyes. Alexis had swiped right the moment she saw his photo on the hookup app, and they’d been texting nonstop for two days. Now, with her nails digging into his back, she felt the afterglow already swelling inside her as she neared orgasm.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Just like that…”

Minutes later, he came with a deep moan, holding himself inside her as he shuddered. She sighed, letting her legs fall limply to the side. A mix of sweat and sex clung to their bodies.

He pulled out, muttering something about hitting the bathroom, and left her sprawled on the bed, still catching her breath. Alexis stared at the cracked ceiling, the reality of post-coital clarity already beginning to creep in. Maybe she would see him again, she thought. Maybe this one was worth a repeat.

But then his phone lit up on the nightstand.

She turned her head lazily toward the screen, half-expecting it to be one of those annoying app notifications. Instead, the caller ID read:

Sandy – Wife

Her stomach sank. The glowing screen might as well have slapped her across the face. For a moment, she froze, torn between confrontation and denial. But then her jaw tightened. Silently, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and began dressing. No panties. No second thoughts.

By the time the man emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his hair, she was slipping her heels on.

“Whoa. You heading out already?” he asked, looking genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” she said flatly, grabbing her purse. “Got what I came for.”

He blinked. “Uh… okay. Did I—was something wrong?”

Alexis didn’t answer. She gave him one last look—this time without the heat or hunger that had burned through her only twenty minutes ago—and turned on her heel.

He stood there, confused and a little disappointed, until the click of the motel room door signaled her exit.

As he reached for his phone, the missed call notification stared back at him. And then he understood.

“Shit…”

Down in the parking lot, Alexis tossed her purse into the passenger seat of her car and sat behind the wheel, fuming. Not just at him, but at herself. She hadn’t even asked. Hadn’t thought to. She’d let her guard down because he looked good and said all the right things.

She gripped the steering wheel and took a breath.

This wasn’t the first time she’d felt burned after one of these encounters, but it was the first time the sting felt more like self-betrayal than simple regret.

You’re too smart for this, she thought. Too good.

With one last glance at the neon glow of the motel in her rearview mirror, she started the car and pulled away.

At thirty-one, Alexis Morgan had the kind of beauty that made people assume she’d taken a wrong turn into journalism from a modeling career. Golden skin, wide almond-shaped eyes that could flash fire or ice depending on the mood, and a body that made even the most happily married coworkers forget their vows for just a second too long.

She knew it. She’d always known it.

And she’d spent most of her adult life figuring out how to wield it without being defined by it.

By day, she was a respected producer at Channel 9 News, one of the youngest in her station’s history. She’d started as a production assistant straight out of college, and clawed her way up, story by story, segment by segment. Local Emmy nominations. Weekend specials. Breaking news exclusives. It was all part of the climb.

She’d dreamed of this job since she was sixteen, watching cable news in her bedroom while other girls texted their boyfriends or posted mirror selfies on MySpace. But Alexis had always wanted something bigger. Not fame—control. Influence. The ability to tell the stories that mattered and shape how people saw the world.

That drive had come with sacrifices. She didn’t date. Didn’t have time for candlelit dinners or getting to know someone’s favorite movies. Romance was a luxury she never saw as worth the cost—not when she had deadlines to meet and anchors to keep in line. Over the years, she’d fielded flirtation like a seasoned goalie: with a polite smile and a firm deflection. Some of the passes were subtle. Most weren’t. Married producers, interns with too much cologne, even her own former mentor once asked if she “needed a strong man to help her decompress.”

She didn’t.

Instead, Alexis learned to take care of her needs on her own—very well, in fact. Vibrators. Shower heads. That curved glass toy she kept in her nightstand drawer. All were trusted allies in a life too full for emotional entanglements.

And when the itch got too strong—when fantasy alone couldn’t scratch it—she turned to the hookup apps. They were easy, curated, and disposable. Alexis was honest on her profile: “Independent. Busy. Looking for physical connection only. Discretion required.”

She got what she wanted. Usually.

But this morning’s motel encounter had left a bad taste in her mouth—and not just metaphorically. The man had been sexy, sure. And the sex itself had been fine. Better than average, even. But discovering he was married had yanked the pleasure from her like a rug under high heels.

Alexis prided herself on not being that woman.

Now, as she sat at the vanity in her modest downtown apartment brushing her long brown hair, she studied herself in the mirror. Her face still glowed faintly from the morning’s activities, but there was something else behind her eyes now. Something colder.

She tossed the brush down and exhaled hard.

“Last time,” she muttered. “Next time, ask the damn questions first.”

The truth was, Alexis was tired of the randoms. Tired of the apps, the small talk, the careful lies. She was even beginning to feel tired of the orgasms.

What she wasn’t tired of—what never bored her—was the work. The hunt. The thrill of chasing a lead.

And that was what she was going to focus on now.

That, and maybe—just maybe—figuring out if there were better ways to get the big stories.

A Hot Tip and a Cold Lead

It started with a whisper.

Alexis Morgan sat in her office at the station, sipping lukewarm coffee and skimming emails, when a familiar voice popped into the newsroom.

“Hey, Morgan,” said Tony, an on-again-off-again field reporter with an uncanny ability to pick up juicy tidbits between beers. “Word is, Daniel Armitage landed back in town.”

Alexis raised an eyebrow. “Armitage? As in Aerosys Defense Armitage?”

“Uh-huh. Flew in late last night from D.C. on a private jet. Got spotted at Burbank Airport looking like a hedge fund vampire. Gray suit, sunglasses, the works.”

Alexis leaned back in her chair, already imagining the graphics.

Now 52 years old, Armitage had once been a darling of the West Coast business world—sharp, media-polished, and spearheading a billion-dollar government defense tech company. But that all came crashing down six months ago, when his wife left him with their kids, and a whistleblower revealed that Aerosys had been funneling insider data to hedge funds ahead of classified federal contracts. Congress called it “the most ethically corrosive breach of corporate-public trust in modern history.”

No charges had stuck—yet. But the board had forced him out, and he’d vanished from the spotlight.

“Where’s he staying?” Alexis asked, her tone suddenly sharp.

Tony shrugged. “Dunno. All I got is that he passed through Gate 6 and refused comment. Press wasn’t allowed within thirty feet.”

Alexis was already pulling her phone closer.

“I’ve got a source at Burbank Airport security,” she muttered.

Tony grinned. “There’s the Alexis we know. Just don’t seduce him into talking.”

She gave him a smirk over her shoulder. “No need. If he talks, it’s because he knows who I am.”

Inside, though, Alexis’s gears were turning. Armitage had avoided every major outlet. If she could land a scoop—an exclusive, face-to-face interview—on camera, it wouldn’t just make headlines. It would define her career.

But how?

Later that afternoon, Alexis stood near the terminal at Burbank Airport, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, holding a latte she hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. Her contact had tipped her off that Armitage’s return flight from San Diego would arrive at 4:10 PM. She positioned herself strategically near the private arrivals exit, nerves held tight beneath her tailored blazer.

And then—there he was.

Daniel Armitage. Broad-shouldered. Salt-and-pepper hair neatly slicked back. The kind of confident gait that came from decades of running boardrooms and outmaneuvering federal investigations. His eyes scanned the sidewalk, not missing a thing.

She stepped forward, professionally but assertively.

“Mr. Armitage—Alexis Morgan, Channel 9. I was wondering if you’d be open to a quick statement?”

His pace didn’t slow, but his eyes flicked toward her. Up, then down, pausing a second longer than was professional.

“I don’t do sidewalk interviews,” he said smoothly, his voice like dark scotch.

“I’m not looking for soundbites,” Alexis replied, keeping pace with him. “I want to tell your side. On camera. No filters.”

He stopped just shy of a black Escalade with tinted windows. His driver opened the door, but Armitage didn’t get in. Instead, he turned to Alexis, head tilted.

“You’re very persistent.”

“It’s my job.”

“You’re also very attractive,” he said, bluntly. “That part helps.”

Alexis’s stomach flipped, but her face remained calm.

“Tomorrow,” he said, fishing into his blazer pocket. He handed her a business card—blank except for a single phone number. “Call me. We’ll discuss… arrangements.”

And with that, he slid into the backseat and was gone.

The next morning, Alexis sat at her kitchen counter, card in one hand, coffee in the other. She’d told herself it would be a negotiation. Just a call. A tease of the offer, maybe a hint of location.

Instead, the man who picked up on the other end didn’t waste a second.

“You want the story?” Armitage said, after confirming it was Alexis. “Then I want something in return.”

She paused, gripping the mug tighter. “What kind of something?”

“Drinks. And then you’ll spend some personal time with me. No strings, no cameras. Just two consenting adults.”

Her face flushed, her instincts screaming at her. It was wrong. It was unethical.

But damn if it wasn’t tempting.

The exclusive… the coverage… the power of knowing she had what every other producer in town wanted.

“Think about it,” Armitage said smoothly. “You have until noon. After that, the offer vanishes.”

He hung up.

Alexis stared at her phone for a long time before slowly setting down the mug.

The clock read 11:07 AM.

At 11:58 AM, Alexis Morgan opened her contacts and tapped the number.

Her pulse thudded in her throat.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Ms. Morgan,” came Armitage’s voice, low and expectant.

“I’ll do it,” she said quickly, before he could say anything else, her voice clear.

He didn’t gloat or ask for confirmation. He simply said, “Hotel Étoile. Room 901. Tonight. Seven o’clock.”

Then the line went dead.

Alexis sat still for a long moment. Her heart raced with adrenaline, uncertainty, even excitement. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be done. But the truth was, she’d already weighed the ethical cost—and made peace with it.

This wasn’t for love. It wasn’t even for lust.

It was for the story.

And maybe, just maybe, for herself.

Despite her reasons for going along with the agreement, Alexis did not want to disappoint her subject. Shit, if he really enjoys himself, he might tell her more, she figured. She looked through her closet for the perfect dress, then took a long bath with her favorite body wash, carefully shaving some areas, trimming others, and taking extra time after the bath for makeup and hair before pulling on her selected dress. Then, a few spritzes of her perfume to complete the preparations. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a beautiful, confident, and successful woman about to create the story of her lifetime. She grabbed a clutch and headed out to her apartment’s garage and into her mini SUV.

—--

The suite was upscale but not flashy. Warm lighting, muted modern tones, and a king-sized bed made up in crisp white linens. A bottle of champagne had already been opened and sat chilling in a glass bucket beside the table, along with two flutes and a plate of strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.

Alexis arrived wearing a black fitted dress and heels, no jewelry, but a small gold chain at her neck. Her hair was pinned up loosely, as if she didn’t want to look like she’d tried too hard—but absolutely had.

Daniel Armitage answered the door in slacks and a crisp, open-collar shirt. No jacket. No pretense.

“You’re right on time,” he said, stepping aside.

Alexis walked in slowly, scanning the room. She turned to face him.

“I want to be clear—this is for the interview. Nothing more. And I need to hear you say you’ll never tell anyone about this arrangement.”

“You have it,” he smiled.

“No, I need to hear you say that,” she insisted.

Armitage nodded. “Of course. One night. One story. That’s the agreement. No kiss-and-tell.”

There was no awkward prelude. No slow dance. They sipped a little champagne, exchanged brief remarks about the view, and then he kissed her. It wasn’t forceful, but it was confident. Skilled. Experienced.

Alexis didn’t say much more. She wasn’t here for banter. She had set her purse on the entry table, exhaled slowly, and turned to face Daniel Armitage.

He was taller than she remembered—lean but muscular in a tailored shirt and dark trousers. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing forearms more defined than she expected from a man whose life had once been boardrooms and country clubs.

His gaze swept her from head to toe, then settled back on her eyes. “May I?”

Alexis gave a single nod.

He stepped forward and began unzipping the back of her black dress, fingers slow and deliberate. She didn’t flinch as the fabric loosened around her, falling to her hips. His hand slipped inside the fabric at her shoulder, gliding the strap down. He did the same on the other side.

She shivered—not from nerves, but from anticipation.

Her dress pooled at her feet.

Her black lace bra and panties followed, dropped gently by his hand to the carpet. Then he guided her toward the bed and laid her face down across the smooth duvet, stretching her arms above her head as if she were a gift he intended to unwrap slowly.

She felt the bed dip as he straddled her thighs. His hands began kneading the knots in her shoulders with surprising tenderness, then lower, across her spine and hips. His palms moved with practiced confidence, thumbs digging deep into the curve just above her ass.

Then he slipped lower.

He spread her cheeks with both hands, exposing the vulnerable, sensitive folds between them. His thumbs stroked down slowly to her center, then circled her folds, coaxing her wetness to life. She gave a soft, involuntary sigh.

When his fingers entered her—first one, then two—Alexis bit her lip, stunned at how quickly her body responded.

Then his mouth replaced his fingers.

Still on her stomach, she gasped as his tongue pressed between her lips from behind, licking her slowly, deeply. The sensation was unlike anything she’d ever felt before—exposing, intense, dirty in the most intoxicating way. Her hips lifted slightly on instinct, spreading for him.

He devoured her from behind, moaning softly into her as she started to tremble.

“God—fuck…” she whispered, shocked at how fast her orgasm built. The room tilted, dimmed, tightened around her as her climax burst loose in waves, her body rocking against the sheets.

She panted into the mattress, her hair stuck to her cheek, legs limp beneath him.

Armitage rose behind her and turned her over.

Alexis met his eyes—sharp, appraising, even now—and let him guide her legs apart again.

He was big. Visibly. She hadn’t allowed herself to really look until now, but the sight of his cock—thick, flushed, and eager—sent a new thrill through her.

He eased into her slowly, watching her face as she adjusted to his size. Her breath hitched. Her nails curled into the sheets.

Then he began to move—strong, smooth strokes. His body weight pressed her into the mattress as he kissed her again, this time with more urgency.

“Goddamn,” she muttered, wrapping her legs around him as he found that perfect rhythm, deep and filling. “Just like that…”

Her second climax snuck up on her, swelling rapidly as his thrusts deepened. She clenched around him, moaning into his shoulder as the tension exploded again inside her.

He pulled out suddenly.

“On your knees,” he said, voice low.

She obeyed.

He took her from behind, hands gripping her hips firmly as he fucked her harder now—more primal. She cried out into the pillow, her third orgasm rocking her as she pressed back against him.

Moments later, Armitage groaned—loud and raw—as he spilled inside her, his body jolting forward against hers. He stayed there, pulsing, breathing hard.

Then he slid out and stared for a moment at the slick mess of her folds—his cum slowly leaking from her.

Alexis turned over onto her back again, panting, legs slightly spread, skin glistening with sweat.

He collapsed beside her.

Neither of them said anything for a full minute, the only sounds their breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioner. She finally grabbed a few tissues from the nightstand and dabbed them between her legs, tossing the clump back onto the nightstand for now.

Eventually, she turned her head toward the window. She didn’t feel guilty.

Now that the deed was done—surprisingly well, Alexis thought—the control in the situation shifted to her.

The Interview

They dressed in near silence. Armitage adjusted the cuffs of his shirt while Alexis slipped her heels back on, her fingers still trembling slightly—not from nerves, but from the fading adrenaline of climax and control.

He poured two glasses of sparkling water from the minibar and gestured to a small table by the window.

She clipped her external microphone to the top of her phone, set her phone on the table and hit record. He didn’t flinch.

“Ready?” she asked.

“I think we both know the answer to that,” he said with a smirk, but there was a flicker of something genuine in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or admiration.

Alexis didn’t push with hardball questions. She didn’t need to. Armitage was already in a disarming mood.

He told her how the entire scandal had been a coordinated takedown, orchestrated by a rival board member with connections inside the SEC and Justice Department. He admitted to being reckless—paranoid even—but claimed innocence on the key allegations. No foreign bribes, no classified leaks. He said the internal audit report that triggered his downfall had been doctored. He had documentation, names, timelines.

He offered no self-pity, only cold, strategic fury at the “bastards” who’d set him up. When asked why he’d remained mostly silent until now, he nodded toward her.

“Because I knew the right person would eventually come looking.”

Alexis said little. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t needle him. She simply let the tape roll. Let the story tell itself.

He wrapped up his explanation with the same charisma he once wielded in shareholder meetings. “I may never get my old life back,” he said. “But I’m not going to be the villain in someone else’s redemption arc.”

When the red recording light finally went dark, he extended his hand.

“Worth every second,” he said.

She shook his hand, met his eyes, and offered only a faint, confident smile.

Then she walked back over to the nightstand to grab the wad of tissues she had used earlier, tossing them into the small wastebasket near the bed, picked up her clutch and walked out, heels echoing down the hallway, heart pounding not from shame—but power.

—--

The next morning, Alexis stood in front of her apartment’s kitchen window, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in both hands. Her phone buzzed on the counter—texts from her editor, colleagues, and even a rival producer, all reacting to the teaser clip Channel 9 had posted overnight.

The story was blowing up.

She had the exclusive. She had the scoop. And if even half of what Armitage said could be verified, she had the makings of a bombshell exposé that could rewrite public perception—and restore a tarnished name.

And she’d gotten it her way.

She should’ve felt triumphant. And in some ways, she did. The thrill of control. The satisfaction of executing a plan. The knowledge that men who underestimated her—who looked at her like a pretty face instead of a professional—were about to eat her dust.

But something else lingered too.

The moment when Armitage had stared at her while she lay panting on her stomach, his cum dripping from her thighs. The knowledge that she’d crossed a line—willingly, even eagerly—and might not be able to uncross it.

She stared into her coffee, whispering aloud to the empty kitchen, “Never again.”

She even meant it.

—--

The newsroom at Channel 9 buzzed with rare electric tension. It wasn’t the chaos of breaking news or the scramble of a ratings week—it was the kind of reverent silence that came just before a storm of impact.

Everyone had seen the teaser.

Now they were waiting to see the whole story.

Alexis stood in the control room beside her executive producer, arms folded, one hip cocked as the countdown to air ticked down. She’d already done her voiceover. The footage had been edited to surgical precision. The legal team had combed through every word.

At 6:00 p.m. sharp, the broadcast opened with the Channel 9 anchor leaning into the camera with a grave expression. “Tonight, in an exclusive investigation, our own Alexis Morgan brings you a stunning interview with embattled former CEO Daniel Armitage…”

And just like that, Alexis Morgan was on screen.

Not just her face—but her work. Her instincts. Her choices.

In the bullpen, junior reporters leaned forward in their chairs. Editors stood still behind desks. The camera cut to the hotel interview—Armitage’s face, measured and resolute, offering the world his side of the story for the first time.

Gasps rippled in the room when he mentioned falsified audits. When he named names. When he made veiled threats toward federal agencies.

It was a journalistic bombshell.

When the segment ended, there was a moment of stunned silence.

Then came the applause. Genuine. Uncoached.

Her editor, who rarely praised anyone, turned toward her and said, “That was one hell of a story.”

Alexis smiled softly. “Thanks,” was all she said.

She didn’t mention the hotel. Or the massage. Or the way he’d stared at her body like it was his prize.

She didn’t need to. That part was hers.

Later that evening, she walked out of the station with her jacket slung over one shoulder, the stars just starting to pierce the twilight sky. Her phone vibrated with a text from a national producer she’d interned for years ago: “Morgan, was that really your piece? Holy hell. Call me.”

She didn’t respond—yet.

She walked a little taller, heels clicking on the pavement, every inch the consummate professional… even if part of her knew the price.

Inside, a quiet storm stirred.

She told herself it was a one-time thing. A necessary evil.

But deep down, Alexis Morgan had already crossed the line.

And some part of her—strong, curious, insatiable—was wondering how far she could go using the same tactics.

TO BE CONTINUED…